Bienvenidos a Madrid

And so I am!

I arrived on the 24th on January around noon. I caught a lucky break in Seattle when I arrived at the airport. My flight was cancelled. So, instead of the treacherous thirty hour journey I was planning on (including a ten hour overnight layover in London [AND an airport transfer by bus]) I left nine hours later, cutting my flying time to 20 hours!

All of my flights were early - the wind was with me.

Arriving in Madrid, I nervously walked to the customs/immigration control gate. Wondering if I was going to get lip (in Spanish) for not having a return flight pre-booked, I handed my passport to the stern looking man. After several minutes studying the various pages of my passport, and paying special attention to my expired visa for France, the man stamped my passport and looked past me, expecting the next in line. I walked no more than twenty feet before a customs officer starting yelling at me in Spanish. Clumsily, I spat out "¿habla ingles?" The man rolled his eyes and pointed towards where I should walk. Jon would not be declaring that carton of soft pack American Spirits sitting neatly in his rolling carry-on.

I made my way across the, surprisingly, giant airport and into the baggage claim department. My flight was over half an hour early, so I stood in the smoking cubicle (thing?) and watched the luggage belt with empty eyes. As comfortable as the flights were, with mostly empty cabins, I'm not one for long flights. I wonder if anyone is.

I watched and waited until, finally, the luggage began to roll out. One by one. Quite slowly. And then, the Great Luggage Drought of 2K9.

I stood with my fellow passengers for ten, twenty, thirty more minutes. Nothing. And then! No wait... that is the luggage for a different flight on our belt. A man I recognized from the flight began muttering to me in Spanish and, after my clumsy response, then in English. He too had no idea where his bags were. As the clock told me that just over an hour had passed, I walked to the Iberia help desk. Luggage was stuck in London.

I got a phone number and a claim number and continued through the airport to the arrivals gate where a pretty girl named Jessie was waiting with a warm embrace.

We hopped on the metro and headed to Chueca, the gay district of Madrid, where I would be staying in a flat with Jessie and Adrienne. And also this middle aged lady who doesn't speak a word of English, whom I suspect is a prostitute.

The city has a special sort of energy about it. There is a sense of well being in the air. In Madrid, people walk slowly, carelessly. There are smiles and laughs in all directions. Cute old men stumbling by with a cane and a half snarl. Children playing in the plazas. Business suits absorbed in themselves, urgent and alone. The city feels dirty, but it is one of the cleanest I've ever seen. The roads and sidewalks sparkle; the walls are plastered with event posters and graffiti. There is hardly a wall I've seen so far that does not have some sort of mess on it. Open markets and butcher shops mingle with the shoes and scarves, the dresses and bows, the denim and hand bags on sale for the end of winter. There is no definite smell. There is majesty in the buildings, something proud and solid. Though the tourists and immigrants mix just as well with the Spanish, there is an exact sense of culture. Madrid is wisdom and youth.

On the evening of my arrival, I was invited by Kastin and his husband for a dinner at their flat. A delicious potato soup, fish, gelato, and magnificent Spanish wine. Later in the evening I had the good fortune of meeting a number of other people that are quickly becoming friends. Jen, from Vancouver, WA, who is dating Miguel, who was a foreign exchange student at Prairie High School but is originally from Madrid, as well as Eva, lifelong friend of Miguel. Also joining us for dinner was Ismael, a close friend of Pablo's and Kastin's, who has an intense passion for language. Hours and hours passed, and after numerous comments about how tired I looked, I called it a night and headed home.

I have adopted a morning routine. Waking up around 10A to head to Lolina's cafe. Two euros will get you cafe con leche and pan y tomate, covered in olive oil and spices. This is where we go for internet access. The atmosphere is comfortable and the ladies that run the place are beautiful, with warm smiles. They are patient with my accent as I order.

Spain has not initiated a smoking ban. This is a giant surprise for me! As all of the European countries fall in line, one by one (including Amsterdam, mind you!), Spain stands strong. I am told it is because the Spanish would certainly not follow it; there is a way of life here that is rarely disrupted. And so, everywhere you go, everyone is smoking all the time. I guess it's going to be harder to quit than I thought.

Every day has been wonderful. Everyone is being very helpful and patient with me. There is a high demand for English teachers here, so it seems that I will likely find work doing that, though I'm hoping to find some sort of technical work as well.

Last night was beautiful. Euromania. One euro Wednesday at a local bar in Chueca. Beers (or wine) and sandwiches for one euro each. The place was packed, but we managed to find some room at the bar. We drank and drank, talked, and smoked and smoked. At the end of the night, clearly under the influence of foreign substances, I walked arm in arm with Jessie and Ady, down the streets, back to the flat. We laughed uncontrollably all the way home, and in return we got smiles from the passersby, with an occasional glare of jealousy.

Things are going very well. Stay tuned for more updates (and pictures!!!).

love love love you
jon jon jon

PS! Tortilla. It is a thick patty of potatoes, eggs, and onion (sometimes with cheese). It might be the most delicious thing ever. I'm going to learn how to make it. Anyone want to go tortilla crazy??